


Dear Stalker

by confuseddottom



Series: Mycroft Academy [1]
Category: Gossip Girl, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M, Sixth Form
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confuseddottom/pseuds/confuseddottom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London's prestigious 'Mycroft Academy': where an elite education blends with austere masquerade balls, playing host to rumours, scandals, insinuation and bribery, all at the hands of Britain's most powerful families. </p><p>Atop the lofty heights of this social ladder sits the most unlikely of students, the academy's celebrated sportsman, John Watson -- despite his less-than-privileged upbringing, he defied the odds, and his life is seemingly laid out before him.</p><p>However what goes up must always be brought down; and where a mysterious new student rises, another will fall...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the creative people at the BBC for reinventing Doyle's works for a new generation; shout-outs to Moffat & Gatiss for their deft brilliance, and Josh Schwartz for bringing the character of Gossip Girl to my attention.
> 
> Lastly, my gratitude to you, dear readers, whoever you may be. I sincerely hope you enjoy what you find here, for I surely had a blast writing it.
> 
> ** This is a work updated and moved-over from my FanFiction account ~ddggrule, for anyone who has a whiff of déjà-vu, as that account will be deleted in the near future.

_Rise and shine beautiful people, it's Gossip Girl, here to harken in a new year, a new semester and (for many of you) a new start here at Mycroft Academy._  
 _To think it's been a full eight weeks since last you heard from me. What can I say, duty called. While you were all enjoying the summer sun, cocktails and a life of leisure, some of us had rumors to stir, marriages to end and a certain astronomy professor to sack._  
 _Gossip never ceases, so neither can I._  
 _Speaking of astronomy, word on the street is that, in amongst all those new Lower Sixth students I'll be so eager to knock down a peg or two in the coming weeks, Mycroft is to play host to the son of a rather prominent public figure. Of course, where would the mystery be if I named names, but I'm sure at least this one you can figure out on your own -- and, get this, he doesn't quite understand our place in the universe._  
 _Read between the lines, dear readers._  
 _Yet, alas, time is running short and the school bell is waiting to ring. Be sure to have fun catching up with one another, though I know all there is to be caught up on as it is, and remember: I only live while your lives stay interesting._  
 _Make the first day memorable, Mycroft.  
_ _xoxo Gossip Girl._

* * *

 

 Strolling across the well-kept courtyard, John was struck by how the grounds of Mycroft smelled different to the rest of London, wafts of verbascum and oleander flowers mingling with the crisp cool dew suspended in the air of a British morning. The perimeter of the grounds was defined with a massive stone palisade, broken only once by the academy’s gates, otherwise sealing it off from the rest of the capital; and encased within such a privileged bubblesphere, everything seemed inclined to be more vibrant. The grass swayed greener, the water twinkled clearer and even the light of the sun seemed to reflect off of surfaces in a more graceful haze. John really did love this place, and his place within it.

He at last pulled up outside the building containing the boys' dormitories, located in the North-East quarter of the academy’s estate, admirably scanning the brooding gothic architecture that had housed some of the best years of his life. Suspended proudly atop the entranceway, a bronze-cast salamander wound its scaly figure betwixt the legs of a stone replica of the academy’s emblematic “M”. The girl’s own dormitories, located to the North-West, were identical, save for a bronze-cast phoenix in place of the salamander, flanking the two points of the “M” with its wings.

"Our Lord and Master returns," came an all too familiar voice, as a petite middle-aged lady appeared out from the doorway with open arms.

John walked up to her with a smile, enveloping her in a fond hug. "Mrs. Hudson,” he began, pulling away to stare down at her warmly, “it's good to be back. Summer was too long."

She released him from her grip, taking a step back to look him up and down. "I see you've got a bit of a tan there John!" she said delighted, before she knotted her brow. "Though, you've gotten a bit thin."

John grunted. "Yeah. A diet of very little food, questionable quantities of alcohol and next-to-no rugby training can do this to you, it would seem."

Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms, clearly disconcerted, and did her best to look stern. "Now, you listen to me boy: just because you're king of the castle here at Mycroft, don’t go thinking that gives you the right to go off like some crazed playboy in the big bad world, you hear me?"

While she meant as well as ever, John had a hard time not giggling slightly at Mrs. Hudson's motherly concern; though he still made a point of nodding and looking suitably chastised. As head of the boys' dormitories, she was in charge of keeping them all in-check, ensuring they kept themselves and the grounds respectable and weren't out of order. Yet, while Mrs. Hudson was physically unassuming -- all demure frame and kind smiles -- the boarders all made sure to do as she asked, not once disobeying. She garnered an unwavering level of respect from ‘her boys’, and disapproval or disappointment from Mrs. Hudson was met with far much more reluctance and shame than any punishment the professors and lecturers at the academy could come up with.

"It's okay ma'am," he began, "there’s been no 'playing around' this summer. My brother’s been doing enough of that for the both of us."

Mrs. Hudson made a noise, not entirely convinced, her concern often vested in John’s endeavours far more-so than someone like Harry’s. As captain of the Mycroft Rugby Squad, she spent more one-on-one time with John than with perhaps any other student, tending to whatever wounds he picked up on the pitch; which turned about to be a fair number, as he was unnaturally accident-prone. 

She continued as if to speak, before her face dawned in remembrance, "Oh yes! Your brother called, actually, and he's had someone deliver all your things to your room for you to unpack."

"Great," John replied, making no attempt to hide his eagerness to move-in, "and, that reminds me, which dorm am I in this semester?"

"The ground floor corridor by that little student-run cake shop where you boys make those biscuits I’m so fond of,” she hummed, cupping her hand to her cheek in appreciation. “That hallway you’ve all nicknamed ‘Baker Street’. Room 221B, dear. It's a two-man dorm. I can't quite remember who you're sharing with, but I'm sure you'll meet him later on this evening as it is.”

"Cheers Mrs. H.,” John smiled, “Anyway, I should probably go and unpack. Two free periods to start the new term with, y’see. Not bad going!"

Mrs. Hudson remained unconvinced. "Are you lying to me, John Watson? Playing truant are we? That good for nothing brother of yours... He best not be putting ideas into your head!"

 

* * *

 

John's morning passed rapidly. He'd managed to unpack not even half of his things before needing to head out for his first lesson of the day. He caught up with all the lads in the changing rooms before they headed out for their fitness lesson and tossed a ball around the field, all amazed at how much their summers had affected their athletic levels: John's stamina had plummeted, the strain setting in after only an hour of ball exercises and gentle jogging, and judging by the state of his peers he wasn’t alone. A few weeks in the gym would get him back on form, he thought.

Unusually exhausted, and welcomely starving, he made his way over to the academy's white stairs -- the most popular meeting spot -- at lunchtime to meet with Irene after a summer apart: sat with a brown paper bag in hand, as John had come to expect over the years, she’d once again gone to the trouble of grabbing him a coffee and a sandwich from her preferred deli just outside the grounds.

"Not in the mood for canteen food today, are we?" John greeted her with a grin.

"God no," she replied, looking disgusted and wholly oblivious to the fact they’d not seen one another in two months, "That stuff's just about edible at the best of times. Why suffer, when Angelo’s has such perfectly delightful nibbles?"

She held her hands up to face-level with a grin, making claws with her fingers, before plunging both hands down into her loot, like the most pedigree of cats fawning over the most loved of spoils. She withdrew two freshly-made baguettes from the bag, the mark of true delicatessen evident all over: save for the plastic wrapping required for their preservation, one couldn’t be blamed for thinking them the labours of a master chef, so meticulous was the presentation, so inviting the ingredients.

“In any case,” she continued after a moment, handing John his food, warm to the touch, “on the odd occasion our darling canteen manages to produce something of remote quality, why I could not tell you, but it always seems centered around fish. Tuna is hardly worth spoiling one’s tastebuds over.”

John, momentarily distracted from the warm glow of golden bread, made a face. "I happen to like tuna!"

"That's tough," Irene shot back, arching her back as if to emphasise her objection, "because I refuse to sit here with someone whose breath reeks of East Anglia. Fishermen, honestly! I’ve brought you honey-glazed chicken and back bacon, and you shall be content with it!"

"You give new meaning to ‘elitist’," John sighed with a disbelieving shake of his head, unwrapping the baguette, “but I suppose I can forgive you,” he finished with a smile, the aromas of tender and salty meats defeating any potential argument of his.

But one bite in, and everybody's phones began vibrating and beeping and whirring into life.

Irene's face lit up and she clapped her hands together, then swiftly tapping in the unlock code on her mobile. "At last, the first Gossip Girl text of the new semester. And there I was, thinking she’d become a laggard."

John smiled at her enthusiasm, and checked his own phone. Sure enough, the now-infamous “New Message: GG” blinked invitingly from his home screen. He didn't really pay Gossip Girl that much heed, in truth, but he'd still wound up subscribing, thinking it a much less grief-ridden experience than what he’d receive from Irene were he to refuse.

_Hello everyone. Enjoying playing catch-up?_  
 _I notice some newbies have yet to subscribe to me. Be dears and keep them up to speed, would you? To the stragglers I can only promise social suicide, after all._  
 _But, well, well, well, did you hear? The Prodigal Son has at last arrived, and with the sun as high in the sky as it is right now, let's hope he's willing to acknowledge its existence today._  
 _Be sure to make him feel welcome, Mycroft, like a young Drew Barrymore once did in a classic Spielberg title, because alien's exactly what you're dealing with. “G.G. phone home”?_  
 _xoxo Gossip Girl_

John looked up from the text, bemused, and over at Irene. "I read about this new guy on her blog this morning. Who is he? She's not exactly letting on much."

Irene scoffed at him. "Watson, dear, just how much did you drink this summer? It's the son of Doctor Holmes."

He thought to himself for a moment. "Doctor Holmes? As in _the_ Doctor Holmes?"

“The penny drops like my waistline,” Irene chides, nodding before continuing, "Bounced tens of millions through the stock markets before hitting his mid-twenties, owns half of London’s property market and trade routes in more than thirty countries, the object of desire for every socialite this side of Chelsea; that's the man, the one and only.”

John whistled, an awed sound, only then to be confronted by a much closer Irene, leant-in with a look in her eyes so devious the Devil would surely be first in line at the altar.

“Though,” she purred almost indecently, “apparently his son is nothing like him. From what I've heard, the Doctor won't take him to any events or social gatherings. Of course, one must be careful never to read too much into salacious gossip, but the word on the tried-and-tested wire is that he's _ashamed_ of him."

"Ashamed?" John asked, remembering to eat in an attempt to distract his body’s senses from the myriad of aromas that poured off of Irene.

"Yes indeed," she continued, enraptured, "because his son couldn't care less about any of that. He's always seen out in scruffy attire, is rude-mannered and ill-tempered. ‘The loose bolt of a complete machine,’ as Gary had it explained to me."

"He actually sounds quite interesting, if you ask me," John countered, sinking a bite into his lunch, then furrowing his brow. "Who's Gary?"

In hindsight, this was probably not quite the best question to ask in such close proximity, as the "Oh!" Irene then half-shrieked in delight startled John into nearly choking. A few pats on his back saved him from a potentially embarrassing fate, and while he wiped the tears from his eyes, her manner changed instantly from plotting sleuth to prowling cougar.

"Well," she began, in a voice quite too suggestive for their age, her hands on John's knees and leaning-in once more, "he's this rather dashing young man I get to spend the next term sitting across from in Chemistry. We met in class this morning. His family are often on the various guest lists to the Holmes' parties and functions, putting him in a most useful position for my covert interests; and while I listen to him feed my curiosity, so too can I stare at that perfectly formed face of his and imagine all the expressions I could force it to twist into. I'm eternally grateful women can multi-task, you know."

John abandoned his sandwich at the thought, his head falling into his hands. "You and the fellas, Irene. I swear, our sex isn't safe with you on this Earth."

Irene gave a wicked smirk, and all John could think was “ _Hell, in high heels”_.

 

* * *

 

John couldn't quite believe the time when he looked down at his watch: 16:30.

First days back at the academy always seemed to rush on by. Lessons were conducted in the half-hearted manner of teachers and students alike forced to relearn rapidly how to present an enthusiastic front, whilst still not capable of putting in any real effort quite yet. Introductions and pleasantries were swapped, syllabi discussed, book lists moaned and groaned at, as well as the notion of switching brains back to ‘engage’ mode being met with as much warmth as given off by John’s new Physics teacher, Dr. Milverton.

An old-fashioned piece of work, whose methods of teaching were as dull as his monotone voice, Milverton was the kind of man that was simply filling a position; a figurehead for the textbook from which John would be having to self-study most of this class. A good thing he enjoyed the subject, he thought, else he may as well not bother even attending.

Summer seemed already but a memory.

As he made his way back over to his room, his mobile sounded from in his pocket.

_Text Message: Irene Adler._  
 _I know who your new roommate is._  
 _Be nice, mister, and try not to be put off like the rest of us._  
 _*cracks whip*_

John wondered over what she meant, winding his way down the halls to Baker Street corridor. He must be one of the newer students, he thought, on account of Irene’s teasing. It was either that, or he'd been landed with someone he downright despised, which would tickle her to no end.

He opened the door to his room to discover that his bed had been now fully made, and the rest of his clothes from the morning had been folded and tidied away; the work of Mrs. Hudson, no doubt.

The dormitories at Mycroft were hardly worthy of the name, more comparable to full-on studio apartments. Each room had the same layout: large and square, with two separate beds in the top corners, each sporting its own bedside table and lamp; a wardrobe propped against the wall at the foot of the bed; a desk tucked in next to the wardrobe; an august window acting as the centerpiece on the wall in between the two beds, situated directly opposite the door -- to John’s delight, his played witness to a grand overview of the courtyard. There was also a significant amount of wall and floor space, a valuable commodity traditionally becoming the canvas for photos he'd take over the course of the year, and the floor space was always agreeable for his exercises and dirty laundry.

As Mrs. Hudson had chosen to set him up on the lefthand-side bed, he walked over and sat down on it gently, testing the springs with a few playful bounces, staring across at the other bed before him: one large, black leather suitcase dumped on top of it.

The suitcase was old, vintage even, clearly a hand-me-down, scratched and used to within an inch of its life. Arms of unfolded shirts and legs of crumpled-up jeans hung out from inside it, as if the clothes had all been shoved carelessly in and the suitcase closed with no thought for polish. For a reason John couldn't quite explain, he felt the need to unpack it, an obsessive compulsive order probably drilled into him over years of boarding life. He figured whoever his roommate was, they didn't seem to be appearing anytime soon, and no doubt they'd appreciate it if he spared them the unpleasant task.

He got up off his bed and walked over to the suitcase, throwing the lid open with a heave and staring at the mess inside. He couldn't believe Mrs. Hudson had allowed whoever this was onto the premises, hating untidiness as she did; dust clouded up into the air from clothes that hadn’t been pressed, and were almost certainly unwashed. He set up the ironing board hanging from behind the door, and got to work smoothing the creases out off each item of clothing systematically, folding them up and piling them neatly on top of the stranger’s bed.

"You wear a lot of shirts and trousers mate," he said aloud to himself as he went, and when he'd finished the last shirt, he noticed a small black book at the bottom of the suitcase. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands, no bigger than A5 in dimensions but near-full to bursting with various inserts and scrawlings. Checking the inside cover, not wanting to pry much further into something obviously very personal, he saw it read ‘ _Property of S.H._ ’

"Well," John said out loud again, "I may not know who you are, but at least I know your initials."

"Sherlock Holmes."

John all but yowled, dropping the book, jumping and spinning around to meet the source of the name. The student who stood in the doorway, wild curly dark hair, a thin almost-gaunt white face, was tall, taller than he was, yet noticeably younger, and wore a long dark trench coat that seemed to swallow his entire body. A red woolen scarf about his neck completed the appearance of perhaps the most unusual-looking male he’d ever clapped eyes on.

"S-Sorry?" John asked back, failing to regain composure.

The stranger walked in and shot judgement at the folded clothes on the bed. "I see you took the liberty of rifling through my suitcase and disturbing my things. A bit intimate of a thing to do for someone you've yet to meet, is it not?"

John couldn't quite process the deep texture of such a voice from one as young as himself, hammering out his response, "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. I was bored, and yes. Well."

"Do you do that often?" the stranger asked him, and then agitated by John’s evident lack of understanding clarified, " _Not think_ , do you do that often?"

John hesitated in a sheepish grin. "I'm sure a lot of people would say I do, yes."

The stranger looked at him, perplexed. "How I envy you," he said.

A moment passed as John stared back, looking directly into his eyes that seemed to see straight through him, clinical and factual, cold and robotic; they were different colours, one more green than the other, blue. "Your name," John began, his shock at last dissipated coupled with the realisation he was staring too much, "your name... Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," he replied matter-of-factly, gaze never faltering nor expression changing, "and it would appear, for now, that the address is 221B Baker Street Corridor. You must be who I'm sharing my room with. John Watson."

John blinked again. "Yes. That's me, hi," he replied, walking forward to shake Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock grasped his and shook, and John noted how large his hands were. "How, exactly, did you know my name?" he asked.

He was then leveled with such a look as if to suggest he was, in fact, brain-dead. "The man I'll be spending the next year of my life sharing a room with? You expect me not to find out a little about you beforehand?"

John frowned, confused. "I like to think I know pretty much everything and everyone here, yet even I couldn't find out who I'd be sharing a dorm with this year."

"Oh?" Sherlock sounded, with a cocked eyebrow and a bemused grin.

"Mycroft normally keeps that all under wraps," John elaborated, "until you actually meet the person face to face. It saves from any disagreements or bickering, y'know, in case people don't like who they've been paired with."

Sherlock smiled, but his eyes did not, "There it is, as expected. The academy's ‘icon’ indeed, if you’ll pardon the nomenclature."

Had anyone else said such a thing to him, John was sure it would've been meant as a compliment; but from this Sherlock it felt more like an accusation, an insult, and perhaps, worst of all, a label. "What has that got to do with...? Icon?"

Sherlock suddenly looked down at their hands, which still held onto each others' in unbroken greeting. John followed his look and quickly broke the grip, embarrassed, digging his hands into his pocket and walking over to sit down on his bed. He looked up, and Sherlock was still staring at him -- no, staring _into_ him, this intense and dangerously inquisitive look that made John feel like he was no more complex than a children’s book.

"Every student at this academy and every teacher acknowledges you when you walk past them," Sherlock began, "so it's obvious they all know who you are, and that you've made quite the name for yourself here. The way you stroll about this place, such leisure, comfortable and sure of yourself, you clearly know every corner of it; you're the personification of it. You not only unpacked my suitcase, but you ironed and folded my clothes, and while I'll do my best to make sure I make them scruffy again, you did this like it was the most natural thing in the world. This academy's routine and expectations are a part of you."

John shifted uncomfortably.

"Add to this," Sherlock continued, "that you're the head of Mycroft’s rugby team and that it seems your best friend is the academy's very own ‘it’ girl -- not to the mention the frankly alarming familiarity you and Mrs. Hudson seem to share with one another, despite her position in this country's rather cautiously impersonal education system -- and, well, yes. I think it's fair to say you are a perfect representation and perfect product of this academy."

His cocked eyebrow appeared again, querying _"Did I miss anything?"_ , and John tasted something sour inside his mouth. Sherlock painted him out to be an automaton.

"That's a lot to be leveling at someone you've only just met," he responded at length.

"I like to think my first impressions are unique," Sherlock countered with a self-satisfied smirk and a flick of the wrist, before throwing himself camply onto his bed and laying on his back, collecting the small black book John had dropped on the floor.

John remained seated and rested his elbows on his knees, chin on his hands, glancing back over at the odd stranger. It was arguable that most would take what he'd said in the wrong way and be put off; that his personality, to this guy, was simply an extension of Mycroft Academy hardly ranked among the nicest things John had ever been told. He decided it wasn't worth it, however, and found himself actually admiring Sherlock's unapologetic candor.

"You're staring at me," he heard him say.

"I'm sorry. Again." John half-stammered, shooting his eyes to the floor, "It's just, well, you're pretty fascinating."

Sherlock fixed him a look that John could only call utter surprise, and he found himself instantly regretting his choice of words. Fascinating? _Fascinating?_ Had he ever told anyone in the world they were _fascinating_?

"You think I'm fascinating?" Sherlock tested, his eyes alight with stunned appreciation.

John swallowed and purposefully took a minute before replying, both to reassess his answer and to pull himself out of this premature grave he’d unthinkingly dug for himself. "Would you like me to be put off by you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Most people are. If memory serves, there’s naught but one person who’s ever labelled me _fascinating_ ," he smiled sadly.

"What do people normally say?" John asked, almost a little too softly.

Sherlock's smile weakened, "Piss off."

They sat in silence for a moment, the air suddenly thick with a blend of bitterness and misery, still staring at each other across the room from their separate beds. And then, for some unknown reason, John found himself chuckling.

"Do I amuse you?" Sherlock questioned him in practiced agitation.

John continued to giggle, "You do, yes, but in a good way. Definitely in a good way."

He sighed to himself, and smiled again over at Sherlock, who continued to look perplexed when John's phone then sounded into life.

"Judging by the twenty-or-so people out in the courtyard who are also now checking their phones," Sherlock stated, "I gather Gossip Girl is broadcasting again."

"You know about Gossip Girl?" John asked him, surprised.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, stood up and walked over to sit down next to him on his bed. "Of course I do."

John pulled the phone out from his pocket, and the screen lit up:

_So, Day One's been and gone. Are you back into the swing of things yet my dear Upper Sixth?_  
 _As for all you Lower Sixth, I'm so thrilled to see so many of you popping up on my mailing list. You sure know how to make a girl happy._  
 _I can't believe it's been but a day, and already I have so much to share with you: the scandalous Bohemian has been making her way round France (and through its men); everyone's favourite James has already gathered up more requests for his expulsion than previously thought possible (is that a record?); and our very own new resident celebrity, the son of Doctor Holmes, has gone and shacked up with our very own resident sports star in the boys' dormitories._  
 _Now now everyone, keep those fan-flailing squeals to a minimum please._  
 _I hope to see you all bright and early tomorrow morning, gossiping away._  
 _Until then, do your homework, be model citizens -- and would someone please tell Mrs. Hudson that cerise is not her colour?_  
 _xoxo Gossip Girl_

John looked back up at Sherlock, who seemed lost in thought. "Any questions?" he asked.

"Only one," Sherlock replied with a curious wave of the hand towards John’s phone, "Why has your school bought into this?"

John threw his own hands into the air with a smile. "Now there’s the question. I honestly couldn't tell you. The kids in this school, all things material, all things media -- is it really that surprising? They'll all have watched this show, all decided that they wanted in on the idea, and so some poor bugger's been given the task of spying on the lot of us and letting the rest of us know."

Sherlock grunted. "I suppose it keeps you from being bored."

"Well," John began, "you could say that. The only reason I'm on her mailing list is to check up on what she says about me. It's very rare I'm not included these days, in her texts _and_ on her blog, so I like to know what she's spreading."

"It doesn't bother you," Sherlock asked, concerned, "that the majority of the student body out there know of your affairs?"

John shrugged. "Not really, no. Especially when mine are almost always outdone by Irene's."

"Ah, ‘the scandalous Bohemian’, I take it?"

"How did you...?" John paused for a moment.

Sherlock grinned, "It was hardly a chore to deduce. I remember the headlines earlier in the summer, ' _A Scandal In Bohemia_ '. You can't be as liberal as she is and not get attention, especially when your mother controls nearly every art institution in the country. I’ve spotted her frivolous little column in the papers, too, from time to time. ‘ _The Science of Seduction_ ’. Good title."

John smirked, "Get you, detective. Don't tell me this means you know who else Gossip Girl’s on about too, then?"

"There's you and me at the end there," Sherlock replied lackadaisically, "how is that not obvious? Though I haven't been here long enough, or this ‘James’ character simply isn't _interesting_ enough, for me to know anything about him yet. Care to fill me in?"

"James Moriarty," John all but grimaced, "or simply ‘Jim’ to most of the student body. A right piece of work, him. Utterly brilliant, don't get me wrong, wickedly clever and a damn fine sportsman."

Sherlock looked interested. "But...?" he pressed.

"But," John lingered, "there's something wrong about him. I mean, he's your standard tearaway student: his parents have more money than sense, he's set for life, so why should he care about an education, and he lets his teachers know this. Etcetera. It's just, it doesn't end there.” 

John was unsure quite how to proceed, but the look Sherlock gave him compelled him on.

“Things happen around that guy, bad things. No one's ever sure or not if he's involved or not, and he doesn't go out of his way to dispel suspicion."

Sherlock looked away from him at that, out of the courtyard window, and John could have sworn he saw flashes of processing and calculation sparkle across his eyes. A smile slowly spread across his face, "Sounds like my kind of guy," he whispered.

"Wait, what does that mean?" John asked at a loss.

Sherlock focused back on him abruptly, "I'm sorry?"

"'Your type of guy', you said. What does that... I mean, do you... ?"

John would be the first to confess he was far from the world’s greatest wordsmith, a trait which, when coupled with simply being British, proved irksome to no end in delicate situations.

Sherlock made a face. "Come on now John, get to the point, don't dawdle."

Nonplussed, the ability to form complete sentences seemed to have deserted him altogether. "No, I mean. Like, relationships. And. Are you. I mean, do you swing... ?"

Sherlock's expression remained unchanging. "Still not following you."

"Gay!" John all but shouted, the word arriving in a stream of exasperation, before he then recoiled from himself and took a moment to cool off. "Are you gay, is what I am asking."

Sherlock all-but guffawed, bursting into short-lived laughter which had John narrowly avoid falling off the bed in shock. "John, are you quite serious? You thought _that_ is what I meant?"

John made to speak, before thinking better of it.

"I literally meant that he sounded interesting," Sherlock spelt out, "as in someone I'd like to keep an eye on, learn more about, purely for my own want of understanding people... Not that I would actively go out and _pursue_ someone like that."

John blushed and began spouting apologies.

"Save the pleasantries, John," Sherlock stopped him with an open palm, "and, besides, would it matter if I were?"

John's eyes widened. "What? No, of course not! It's all fine. I have no problems with... It's all good, by me, really."

"Glad to hear it,” Sherlock consoled, lowering his hand with a smile, “but you needn't worry. Relationships aren't my thing. The work, the learning, the chase, the adventure; there, that's where my interests lie."

John smiled back at him, ignoring the fact that he hadn't answered the question.


	2. Chapter 2

John was hard-pressed to remember the last time he'd sat and simply talked with someone for hours on end. A furtive glance at his watch, and it read nearly midnight; he and Sherlock hadn't once moved from the room, caught up as they were in getting to know one other.

While John had gone to great pains not to broach the subject directly, it was clear from how Sherlock talked about his father -- his entire family, really -- that there was no love lost there. While the famous Doctor Holmes was an idol to many, his own son all but resented him.

"He has never understood why I don't wish to go into the family business, why I should logically be his last choice as successor, why I don't enjoy going to party after party, why I don't take delight in drowning myself in expensive clothes and trinkets and such dull, pointless _faff_ ," he had said, flitting between bouts of anger and sadness. "I read all of his friends' and employers' and employees' intentions like _that_ ," he continued with a snap of the fingers, "and I tell him again and again that most of them want nothing more than his company or business, simply because it looks so _good_ to be associated with him. Yet he can't see that, he can't perceive their greed nor their selfishness."

"That's business for you," John added matter-of-factly, an attempt at sympathy where other words failed him.

Sherlock nodded. "He will always reprimand me for my accusations, and I'm convinced it's because he _knows_ I'm right. He would just never admit to it, the proudness of it all. How could his disappointment of a son possibly know anything about his world?" he added bitterly.

John smiled at him weakly.

They'd talked about many things throughout the evening, wholly oblivious to the passage of time. Sherlock seemed to take great delight, and was maybe even a little impressed, in discovering the font of knowledge that was John Watson concerning all things in and around the academy: from the personal profiles of students and staff John had compiled from his years of experience, not to mention his wealth of knowledge about just what one can get up to in their free time -- few of which truly impressed Sherlock save for the academy’s extensive array of laboratories and their related Laboratory Society ("Students can use them for whatever purpose they like?" he'd almost beamed) -- to the classes into which they were both enrolled -- sharing the same class for Maths; but whereas John was also taking Physics, Biology and Fitness, Sherlock had opted for Criminology, Psychology and Chemistry -- to even John’s own little lesser-known hideaways, dotted throughout the boarding house that he’d come to frequent over the years (information, he would later confess, to having never shared with any other student bar Irene).

"You're in the same class for Chemistry as Irene, actually," John had noted, looking at his roommate's timetable. "You two will definitely get on," he added with a knowing grin.

"Oh?" Sherlock queried, bemused. "She won't avoid me completely for fear of damaging her ‘pristine’ reputation in the academy?"

And here was one of those tendencies of Sherlock’s that John found oh-so interesting: he was used to taking a backseat in just about every social situation, being shoehorned into a corner either by others or with personal intent, rarely wishing to involve himself with his social peers lest the situation “absolutely necessitated it were so”. John had wondered to himself if Sherlock had ever had any true friends, as the young man seemed to operate on an intellectual and inquisitive level that left John either awestruck or with a feeling best worded as “a bit not good”, and it saddened him how quickly he realised that the answer to his musings was almost definitely a ‘no’.

"Are you always so self-deprecating?" John braved after a few hours.

"It's not deprecation when you know it to be true," Sherlock responded with a straight face.

It made a strange sort of sense to John, then, why he and Sherlock had talked for so long, and why Sherlock had been so open and at ease with discussing his more personal matters: of course, there's always that chemistry and ease of communication when you meet someone you just ‘click’ with, but John knew that Sherlock had never had this ease of communication with _anyone_. It dawned on John in that moment that he was probably the first person in Sherlock’s whole life with whom Sherlock had ever shared any of these details with.

"I wouldn't be friends with someone who was like that, Sherlock," he responded. "Irene can be a wildcard, to a degree that most people find alarming, I’ll grant you. But I'll introduce you both. She knows I don't make friends with just anyone, so if she sees me with you — "

"Wait," Sherlock interrupted tersely, stopping John dead in his tracks, staring at him, his eyes alight with something John couldn't quite put his finger on, "Friends? As in you, and _me_?"

John smiled a soft smile at him, "Yes, _you_ and me. I'm sorry if it's a bit too forward for your liking, but I'd like to think I've made a good friend in you this evening, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock didn't break his stare, apparently he dared not to, and John could see the smile that tugged at his lips. "Likewise," the taller man responded at length, and John came to rest his hand on the other man's shoulder with a quick squeeze in a show of sincerity, before standing up.

"Right, now: sleep," he stated, still smiling, "First day's over, and tomorrow everything _really_ begins."

He grabbed a towel from his dresser to sling over his shoulder and walked out of the room, heading down the corridor to the communal bathrooms and leaving Sherlock sat lost in reverie.

Eventually Sherlock changed into his pyjamas and crawled into bed, scribbling a few thoughts in his best unintelligible handwriting down into his small black book, before hitting the lights. He hadn’t expected to meet someone like John here; frankly, he'd almost given up on the idea that he'd ever meet someone who could actually bear to be in the same room as him. It felt different, pleasant, and Sherlock was stunned to find he felt something akin to a swelling sensation in his heart — an organ he thought he'd long since abandoned.

He hadn't noticed John return nor get into his bed, but out of the darkness he heard a "goodnight" float warmly from across the room.

"Goodnight John," Sherlock said quietly in response, before laying on his back to stare up at the ceiling and spend a night of mulling over not calculations nor potential experiments, but rather thoughts of people and behaviour and — dare he admit it — emotion. A night of thoughts, he suspected, which would mark the first of many to come.

 

* * *

 

_Coucou! Are you all awake yet, dear readers of mine?_   
_Now that you've all had a good little chin-wag, it's time for Academy life to really begin. After all, the second day of school means the first day of lessons. Be sure to listen and learn; I couldn't bear writing a blog for the uneducated._   
_But what I can live with is knowing I'll be seeing you all turned out in your best for the annual Mycroft Initiation Ball next week. Have you all been shopping? Picked your designer? Do the boys know what a corsage is yet?_   
_If you’re one of those unmentionables from the Bargain Brigade, I’d advise a Greek designer this year; but I do hope the more affluent Aphrodite’s amongst you set your eyes on something with a somewhat respectable price tag. I look forward to playing paparazzi._   
_And did a little bird told me that Mycroft's own namesake may be making an appearance? A man I'm sure you're all thrilled to meet, because let's face it: if I am, so are you._   
_xoxo Gossip Girl_

Students at Mycroft didn't have alarms, they had Gossip Girl.

Admittedly, John had missed such lively wake-up calls over his summer, and receiving the early morning snippet of information that all the students got from their friendly internet stalker once more did, indeed, cause him to smile a little. Reading the text however, he let out a small groan, annoyed by the idea of playing dress-up for yet another one of the academy's extravagant parties — he was convinced he spent more time buying suits for attending the various ‘soirées’ at Mycroft than he did learning.

No sooner did he glance over and notice Sherlock wasn't in his bed, did the man himself walk through the door, towel about his waist, back from a shower. Mind still half-asleep, John eyed his exposed chest, surprised to discover Sherlock wasn't quite as skinny as he'd imagined he would be — while his roommate’s muscles were by no means as pronounced as his own, and Sherlock was naturally far leaner than John, there was still definition and tone to his body.

Sherlock sat down on his bed, garbed in his towel, and swooped up his little black book that John found he was most curious about.

"It's a book of thoughts and observations," Sherlock offered whilst flicking through the pages, "Random nothings."

John sat upright in his bed and wiped the sleep from his eyes. "Good morning to you too."

Sherlock looked over at him, and they exchanged a brief smile before John yawned, "How long have you been up?"

"I always wake up at 6am, provided I sleep," Sherlock replied, returning his attention back to his book.

John blinked. "What, _everyday_? Have you heard of ‘the lie-in’?"

Sherlock gave him the Braindead Look. "Yes John, _everyday_ , hence the not-so-superfluous 'always'. Is it such an awful idea to you?"

"Well, yes, kind of," John confessed, scratching his head. "If it weren't for the Gossip Girl texts, I don't think I'd wake up... ”

Sherlock gave him a deadpan stare. “You _cannot_ be serious.”

“I like sleep, what can I say," he defended with an innocent shrug.

"It's a distraction, a big fat flaw in our evolution," Sherlock explained bitingly, this clearly a long-held criticism of his.

"But it's a necessary one, I'm afraid," John replied, "like eating and breathing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Breathing is _boring_ , and so is eating, because this," he said, pointing a finger to his head, "this is all that matters. The rest is just transport."

Resigned, John threw off his covers with a sigh and flung open the curtains, allowing the morning sun to pour into the room. As his eyes adjusted to the illumination, coming more into focus Sherlock discovered his roommate slept in boxer shorts, and nothing else; awash in sunlight, John’s rugby-player physique was impressive to say the least. While Sherlock may have stood at nearly a foot taller, John more than compensated for the height difference in muscle mass.

"Well, at least it's a nice day out," John remarked, looking over at Sherlock with a satisfied smile, and Sherlock, who could have sworn his heart had just skipped a beat, broke out of his ogling the other man's frame, his face peculiarly flustered. Looking down at himself to mask his embarrassment, he couldn’t help but observe how inferior his body was stacked next to John's, and a tinge of jealousy tugged at somewhere within him.

"I'm going to grab a shower and let you get changed," John said after what felt like a moment too long, and made to head out of the door, retrieving his towel as he did so. "See you at breakfast?"

Sherlock nodded sheepishly, unconsciously crossing his arms around his chest, and watched John leave. It was certainly a good thing the dormitories were unisex, Sherlock thought to himself, as the sight of half-naked John strolling down any corridor would conceivably send most women into a frenzy.

 

* * *

 

As Mycroft's newest student took his first stroll across the courtyard to the school's canteen, passers-by shot him strange looks which he had become more than accustomed to over the years; thanks to his father, and the nature of anything-but-idle gossip in this academy, everyone was already well-aware of the man called Sherlock Holmes. Moreover on account of his father, to all the world except John Watson, it appeared that Sherlock Holmes was nothing short of strange.

He would be deceiving himself if he claimed not to be bothered by it, but he took solace in knowing he would rather be the way he was than like the rest of humankind: people were forever so stunned that he could assess, re-asses and utterly tear down who they were within minutes of having met them, exactly just what they were thinking or what they had been doing the night before written plain-as-day across their every little action or utterance; they were all so similar, stultifying; products of societies bound by social constraints, whose degrees of variance were in no way as profound as the people who lived within them were led to believe; and so patterns were both inevitable and evident, patterns that he could perceive with lamentably rare clarity.

People all share something intrinsic, something basic: they all go through the world born into pre-existing cultural spheres that bestow the most cruel of disillusions — individual thought, free will — but which in actuality have spoon-fed them forever self-revising recipes of ideas and morality. Guided by the hand from the moment they are born, before they then walk through life independently; but even their ability to stand on their own two feet, their personal agency, these things are still learned from others. No original ability, not anywhere; everything borrowed and perpetuated. There was no diversity, Sherlock had concluded long ago, not really, not when you looked past the exterior — and even then comparisons were still not so hard to draw — and so predicting people and seeing through people? Sherlock found it effortless.

He walked through the doors of the Mycroft’s canteen, and a room of such people lay presented before him.

Almost every head in the room turned in his direction, and those that didn't were quickly made to by a friend's nudging. Sherlock ignored it as always, walking straight ahead to join the queue for food. He'd already clocked an unoccupied space in the corner of the expansive room, quiet and removed, the perfect place to sit and simply observe.

And there were a _lot_ of people to observe: the canteen was an understatedly enormous space, protracted mahogany tables stretching in numerous columns, twelve in total, each just shy of two-hundred feet long — the academy housed close to two-thousand students, all of whom were directing their gazes at him.

He sauntered up to the food bar to be greeted by smartly dressed dinner ladies — though one could be forgiven for thinking they were air-hostesses, so immaculately tied-up was their hair and figure-hugging were their outfits — plating-up all kinds of excessive extravagancies for the privileged and oblivious children of London’s elite. Sherlock wondered if anyone in their right mind could be dissatisfied with the choice of cuisine that lay before him.

"What would you like, Sir?" one of the more petite women, blonde, asked him from behind the counter, very well-spoken and in outrageously good spirits considering the time of day.

"Three slices of toast and a pot of strawberry jam, please," Sherlock replied in his most practiced, courteous tone.

The woman gave him a curious look. "Are you sure that's all you’ll be taking? We would usually try and encourage students to be more ‘gastronomically adventurous’, what with their palettes being ‘so distinguished from those of the hoi pollois'."

Sherlock was a moment from cutting her off, but something in her eyes, the tone of her voice and her undoubtedly crass choice of words stopped him; it was too self-aware. She was being facetious.

“You’re wasted as a dinner lady,” he offered with a cheeky smile, when she then beckoned him over her finger and he leaned in as commanded.

“Truth be told, love,” she began, her accent suddenly and unexpectedly changed to one baring all the signs of south-east London, “I’d be wasted pretty much anywhere, but there are worse paying jobs out there in the world than just standing here and serving you lot your foie-gras and caviar.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Needs must,” he replied, extending his hand over the counter to shake hers. “Sherlock.”

“Rose,” she winked back and Sherlock felt his cheeks flush ever-so slightly red. “Now go and sit down, you big lanky thing,” she chided, indicating — surprisingly, Sherlock might have added — the exact same space he’d mentally penned for himself, “and if ever you feel like a chinwag with someone from steerage, I’m here.”

He took his plate of food and meandered over to the empty corner, perplexed at her kindness, before sitting down and taking the first bite into his food. Having not had the chance to catalogue even the most simple of human interactions around him, it was then that John strolled through the doors, accompanied by an _incredibly_ beautiful woman.

"Irene Adler," Sherlock all but whistled aloud to himself.

He watched intently as they got their food, smiling and laughing and so very perfectly in sync with one another: John had made some offhand comment about her appearance which had caused her to smack him on the arm in protest, yet all the while a smile playing about her face; John was laughing back at her, continuing to tease, reaching the point of threatening to empty a nearby bottle of something over her faultless jet hair; she was one pitch off of shrieking, uncontrollably, arms flailing to ward John off. Sherlock’s mind grappled for a word to describe the spectacle, settling on ‘asinine’.

Then his focus shifted, as if guided; because if the man sat across the room from Sherlock had thought his recurrent glances had gone unnoticed, he'd be most mistaken. Short-cut dark hair framed a set of brilliant white teeth, shown off unreservedly through a handsome smile. But his charming appearance was offset by his eyes, borne down and back under plucked brows, which said something else about him entirely: malice growled out of them, sharp and focused.

"Irene Adler," came John's voice as he strolled towards Sherlock with a grin, "I'd like to introduce you to Sherlock Holmes."

Irene walked over and took a seat down to the right of Sherlock, and his sense of smell was entirely drowned in her heavenly aroma. Her dark hair was tied up off her neck, left to cascade down her back, curled at the ends, while a scythe of fringe framed her face. Her skin was alabaster, her lips scarlet red, and her eyes were the most brilliant deep blue. Her cheekbones were high, proud, and her face as a whole was something you'd expect only to find staring up at you from the pages of high fashion. She was a true genetic accomplishment of beauty; but Sherlock could tell that not only did this woman know it, she used it to her advantage. Her beauty was her weapon.

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes," she said to him, her voice soft and inviting, and her body language the unabashed side of forward. Her eyebrows danced suggestively, and her lips curled into a wicked little grin.

"Charmed," Sherlock responded simply with a quick smile, wary, before looking over at John who'd sat down in the seat to his left.

John smiled openly at him, grabbing a fork before digging into his breakfast, a plate so loaded with food that Sherlock wondered how one mere man could manage. “Is there such a thing as an _over_ full English?” he worried aloud, earning a wink from a John whose mouth was too full of fat-saturated goodness to articulate.

Irene observed then an exchange of smiles between the two of them, the undisguised comfort so typical of John’s seeming to unbalance the extremely-guarded Sherlock, and something strange began to gnaw at her, the shivers of a suspicion forming in her lower back.

"So, Sherlock," she began, taking a bite out of her apple, the only piece of food on her plate, "by all accounts you could clarify for me: there’s no need for astronomy classes in our education system, is there?"

An unanticipated moment elapsed and something sharp seemed to pluck the air, before Sherlock groaned in a sudden loss of appetite. He put down his fork with a clatter to lean back in his chair, both wary and impressed at his new acquaintance. John was eyeing him, apparently interested in his response.

"You see, dear misguided John here believes that there _is_ such a need," Irene began with eyes framed in confidence and deadlocked on Sherlock’s, "and between Gossip Girl and our fine country’s own mass media, I would daresay you’re just the sort of man I would have at my side."

John finally swallowed his last grand mouthful of food ( _an act which mercifully cleared his expression to look a little less ridiculous as his eyebrows furrowed_ , Sherlock would later write into his book), now staring quizzically at his female companion.

After a cross of the arms, Irene smiled a little smile and explained to John, "At a benefit of the great Dr. Holmes held a few weeks back, Sherlock here was made to give a speech, an awkward and somewhat flustered affair. It came to light during this little address that he had no concept of the solar system, be it what orbits what or even where said what is."

Visibly frustrated, Sherlock lowered his head and rubbed index fingers furiously against his temples. "What does that _matter_?"

John swallowed again, an imaginary mouthful, disguising none of his incredulity, “Aren’t… aren’t we dealing with primary school knowledge here?”

Head snapping up, Sherlock shot him a dark look. "That may be so,” he acknowledged, “but why is it important? Why must I dedicate such triviality to memory? This," he said, tapping his head, "this I make sure to only fill with information that is _useful_ to me, and while I have no desire to downplay neither the impressive lifetime achievement nor the unfortunate sacrifice of Galileo Galilei, I’ve never once had cause to draw upon the Earth’s position relative to a gargantuan sphere of… of slow-motion… _e-explosion_ in my dealings.”

He finished with a rather vicious bite from his toast and Irene smiled at his childlike tantrum. John continued to look flabbergasted, apparently unable to mask any emotion on that face of his, before relaxing his muscles in a shrug. "I guess," he said, "in the grand scheme of things, I can understand that logic. Perhaps.”

Irene raised an eyebrow at him, whilst Sherlock then adopted his emotional candour by means of a full-on guffaw.

“John dear," Irene started in protest, “as far as arguments go, I doubt the Board of Governors will approve of ‘my friend thinks it superfluous, _quod erat demonstrandum_ ’…”

“No, you misunderstand,” he replied, reflecting a moment over just what Irene was playing at, "I'm just appreciating another point of view. If Sherlock has no need to know about the solar system, I say fine. Let him not. It’s his mind.”

It was beyond puerile, Irene knew it, however for the briefest of moments she was furious at John. An unfortunate side-effect on her youth, no doubt, hormones coaxing out of her emotions that logic would normally all but abandon. Yet here John was, taking the side of this novel stranger, this random eccentric he had only just met, and jealousy reared its unwelcome head: on any given day, he and she were on the same page and apart from all others, a dynamic duo, unbreakable, impenetrable, together; casting her mind back, she could count on her hands the instances in which John had opposed her in an argument, so rarely did they fail to offer one another support; nevertheless, here he was, defending another’s point of view and thus crippling her original plan.

She mentally calmed herself, her mind ultimately stronger than her heart in all things: John had made a new friend; one ought not to be put off by this, rather happy for him; Sherlock seemed a unique sort, refreshing, and by no means unattractive in his peculiar looks. 

"Irene?" John asked her, the etchings of worry in his face, "You alright in there?"

Her face softened at John’s concern and she closed her eyes for a moment, before opening them with a simper. "Yes, yes I'm fine. Sorry chaps.”

An uneasiness in Sherlock’s stomach came to settle as he realised her apology was genuine. He felt a trap that had been closing in around him suddenly crack into oblivion. Of those he had met in his life up until this point, very few had been capable of knocking him off-guard in a given situation. That this Irene had come so close within minutes was fascinating, but that John had effortlessly quelled her intentions in an instant was even more so.

As if on cue, two thousand phones hummed, whirred and buzzed into life:

_How I've missed a Mycroft breakfast! All those aromas wafting out of that building, caressing the senses, it's enough to make you wonder: how can people stomach this dieting business?_   
_But oh dearie me, what do I see here? Is that our favourite Power Couple sat at a table with the Newbie? To think, there I was ready to brand him as ‘Lonely Boy’, but alas, a different name will be required. If you have any suggestions, be sure to send them in and for the first years, remember: if I take a shine to any one of them, I may provide the author with an I.O.U., a valuable bargaining chip to have with me as your time at the Academy progresses._   
_But back to business, for our rather dashing Troublemaker seems to be taking more than a vested interest in this new threesome, does he not? Either way dear subscribers, watch this space: we all know about Moriarty's tricks._   
_Have I stirred enough for you, dear readers?_   
_Bon appetit._   
_xoxo Gossip Girl_

Sherlock looked up from the text to see that both Irene and John's faces were directed over the room in the same direction, staring at the dark-haired stranger with menacing eyes he couldn’t help but notice earlier.

"That must be Moriarty, I take it?" he asked the two of them.

"Indeed," Irene replied somewhat cautiously, "that's James Moriarty. Quite the piece of work he is, too."

John rolled his eyes and brought his attention back to the table. “You're just pissed off at him,” he chided, “because he's the only bloke in this entire academy that doesn't worship the ground you deign to walk on."

Irene shot him scalpels, sickles, skewers and swords, in a look so dark that the vendors of funeral scarves would be out for a patent on the colour.

The thought of any man _rejecting_ Irene Adler was a thought that brought with it no end of amusement to Sherlock, as this man would indeed have to be either brilliant or stupid. Coupled with this, he was certain Irene would also be truly offended by the idea.

"It's not _that_ ," she retorted, words grinding out through gritted teeth. She tried to compose herself once more as a moment passed, and she blinked. Then, disgust crawled across her face, a shameful self-realisation. “Oh _Lord_ , maybe it is…”

John and Sherlock both exchanged a smile.

“In any case," she began again almost too shrilly, "it's something else as well. There's something about that man that isn’t quite… right.”

Sherlock cast a glance back over at Moriarty, and as luck would have it he was observing him straight back. They held the stare for a moment, as if a penny had been tossed into the air and left to spin, Sherlock’s face impassive as Moriarty's held the twist of a grin. He eyed Sherlock as if he were prey, a look so unlike any other as to have been formed by a man, and the urge to shudder pinched the small of his back.

"Fascinating," Sherlock all but whispered to himself, yet Moriarty seemed to hear, if not lip-read it: his face came alive as he grinned, so very wide and unrooted from all things happiness, like a Cheshire cat.

Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder, and he swivelled back around to see John eyeing him intently with the cock of an eyebrow.

He blinked, uncertain, and acutely aware of John’s hand: a solid grip, a slight resultant loss of blood flow to his shoulder, but not entirely firm; John’s third and fourth fingers exerted less pressure that the others, most likely broken in a rugby injury the better part of a year ago; were he to glance over at John’s hand, he would almost certainly see the slightest of curves to these two of John’s otherwise slender digits. “Apologies, John. Lost in thought a moment, there.”

"It's alright,” John grinned, now patting his shoulder, “I know the feeling."

“Be sure to take care, Sherlock," Irene interjected, “because if Gossip Girl's hunch proves to be right and Moriarty has in fact got his eye on you, then you are in for some… inconveniencing.”

"You needn't worry about that Ms. Adler,” he responded a little too indifferently, “for you cannot be both me _and_ a stranger to a little abuse from time to time.”

John had the strangest urge to give the man a hug.

"Moriarty doesn't do abuse like the average secondary school dolt, Sherlock," Irene continued. "He's intelligent, sly, and tremendously resourceful. He’s never once been caught nor linked to any infraction of the Academy’s rules, though the common consensus is that he is always somehow involved."

Sherlock clapped his hands together and rubbed them, coming to rest his chin upon the points of his fingers and darting his eyes between John and Irene. “How very excellent,” he began with a mischievous grin, “an intelligent snake lurking in amongst the grass. At least I shan’t be bored.”

“Just do try and stay out of trouble, would you?” Irene resigned, standing. “I'm off to my first class. The joys of Lord Byron and his misadventures await! I’m almost certain we’re related, you know. I'll catch you both on the steps at lunch?"

John nodded at Irene with a grin. "Of course, I'll see you there. Except," he added with an expression suddenly turned grave and a condemning point of the finger, "I'll be buying lunch today, understood?"

"If there's any form of marine life in it," Irene replied, pointing her own finger back at John, "I swear to god, Watson, you're a dead man."

John smiled at her in blatant inauthenticity which she returned, before swiftly pirouetting on her heels and walking off. Sherlock watched her glide across the room, a no doubt practiced and rehearsed but nevertheless well-executed technique, turning back at the door to blow him a kiss. The grin that broke out across his face was as if a knee-jerk reaction, which he made instantly vanish as he was able, but not fast enough for Irene to miss. She gave a final wink in triumph, before the most coquettish woman yet of Sherlock’s acquaintance disappeared out the door.

He heard the shuffling of chair-on-floor beside him as John stood. "Well, you'll be getting no kiss from me," John said with a chuckle, "but I'll see you on the steps at lunch. Do you know your way around?"

"If I don't, I'm sure I'll find my way, thank you,” Sherlock nodded.

"No problem," John replied, putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder once again, a gesture that continued to confuse the taller man: he would be the first to admit being a stranger to physical human interaction — it had never necessitated much study, certainly not within _his_ family — but John’s apparent propensity towards human contact was nonetheless the most intriguing observation Sherlock would note that first day at Mycroft.

John removed his hand and wandered over to the canteen door, turning back to give Sherlock a smile before walking out — a sight Sherlock catalogued away for later review.


End file.
